Monsters and Heroes
by Zuza GreenSpades
Summary: A supernatural curse turns America's world on its head in a single night. With every line blurred and America's very identity rocked to the core, can his sanity withstand the fallout? When Russia, moved by pity, reaches down to pull him out of the hell-hole in which he is trapped, will America take the hand of his former enemy? Heroes aren't monsters and monsters can't be heroes...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a short story I'm working on for the Halloween season! I probably won't finish it by Halloween, but I figured if I was to write this kind of story now would be the time to do it. There will be NO SLASH in this story, but there will be a significant amount of violence and scary themes. Hopefully there won't be anything too disturbing, but you have been warned.**

 **Any feedback you wish to give would be greatly appreciated, especially criticism. I really need it! This is written in my natural writing style, but I feel like it might be too lofty or over the top. Should I tone it down?**

 **Thank you for reading and I hope you all enjoy!**

 **Chapter One**

Who keep the monsters at bay?

Three years ago, if you'd asked him that, America would have answered without hesitation. Heroes were the brave individuals who kept back the monsters and defended the innocent no matter the personal cost. He still believes that, and always will. It is a doctrine set so firmly in his heart and mind that it is a part of who he is as not only America the nation, but as Alfred F. Jones, the person.

"I'm the hero," he will always say, and then he will strive with all of his might and being to make his claim stand true.

However, the answer he would give now to your question has grown considerably more complicated than what it would have been three years ago. Now he would say that the heroes who fight back the monsters are also... something _more_. After all, it's a little bit hard to maintain your faith in the cookie-cutter hero- the one with the dashing grin and the sarcastic wit- when your own grin is grotesque and menacing, and your wit fails you as the rot sets into your head.

But I have erred; I must remember the first rule of storytelling. Begin at the beginning, always!

So let's rewind.

As you have no doubt gathered, a lot of events carrying great significance have occurred over the past three years before our story begins. It all began with a curse. No, nothing so cliché as England seeking to punish America and botching a spell- although that has happened before, with humorous results. This curse is a magic of a much graver, more powerful, and far more permanent kind. It was set with malicious intent by a caster who was no novice nor fool, and that ill purpose it has fulfilled exactly as desired. No, the caster was not Russia- although Russia will play a role of importance in this tale.

We are familiar with the differences between the reality of life and the theatrics of a movie. Those very differences, in all their tantalizing fantasy, are the greatest appeal of fiction. But never had those differences seemed as stark as when America's curse began. Indifferent to its grand role in the scheme of the plot, the night did not act like it would have if it were in a movie. You would think the night that changed everything would have the decency to at least foreshadow the calamity with a bit of rain or thunder, or at the very least with a hint of ominous gloom. That embellishment was not to be, for instead the evening disguised itself as pleasant as any other. Clear, quiet, happy.

America was lounging around at home, staying up well past what he should, and playing video games on his couch. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing at all.

Until the lights flickered.

America paused in his gaming, and glanced warily around the room. He was familiar with enough scary stories to recognize the telltale signs. England would call him paranoid and silly, but after a recent night of watching horror films with Japan, America still flinched every time the lights did something unexpected. Now was no different, and it took a minute for the fearful nation to convince himself it was nothing. He mentally berated himself. Honestly, why had he thought it was a good idea to watch those films so close to Halloween?

The lights flickered again- once, twice- and then abruptly, they went out.

America bit back a scream. He quivered in the dark for a long, agonizing moment as he awaited something horrific. When nothing happened, he took a few deep breaths and calmed himself. No one would ever let him live it down if they somehow learned that he suffered a panic attack from a simple blackout. With that thought in mind, America told himself to buck up, be the hero, and for God's sakes _get a flashlight_ , because standing alone in the dark is creepy even if nothing's there. Thankfully, his excessive paranoia had worked in his favor for once. In foresight of just such an occasion, he had kept several flashlights with fresh batteries stored all around the house for quick and easy access.

He stumbled through the dark until he reached the far wall of his living room, where he located his bookshelf and counted up four shelves from the bottom. There, he groped around until his hands fell on the ready flashlight he'd known was stashed there. Sighing with relief, America switched it on. The flashlight's steady beam of light illuminated his surroundings well enough to see. A little nerve-wracked, America decided it was time to hit the sack. Hopefully the power would be back on in the morning.

America carefully ventured out into the hallway and up the stairs that led to his bedroom. He left the door standing open and walked in. Setting the flashlight on his dresser so that it would light the room, America tugged his shirt off and tossed it carelessly onto his bed. Just as he was about to undress further, his bedroom door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the whole house.

America whirled around. Nothing was there. Before he had a chance to process the absurdity of his door shutting on its own, America's flashlight went out. The world around him was plunged into an inky blackness, but that made no difference.

America could see _it_ all the same.

How was it possible for a fiend, so terrible in appearance that surely it must have crawled from the pits of Hell itself, to be garbed only in shadows murkier than the night and yet maintain an ethereal glow? It was approaching… reaching… coming! America stiffened in terror, his stomach clenching in icy dread. It was coming for him, he knew. Although every fiber of America's being longed for nothing more than to shout, to cry, to scream, and to vanish forever from that place, his feet were as stone and his throat was dead, unable to utter a sound.

 _"Do you fear?"_ it asked, nearing him still. It did not speak with a voice, but rather with thoughts that struck America's mind like a sharpened blade piercing the flesh. Gasping, America reeled in place but miraculously kept to his feet.

 _"Why do you tremble? What do you dread?"_

The ghastly figure stopped before him and looked down, surveying him from its place behind the glass of the bedroom mirror hanging on the wall. The shadows around it solidified into bloody, torn clothes that revealed the creature's rotting, hanging flesh. In some places along its ribcage, the bone showed through. Its face was hidden from view by a long, black veil that drifted around it, blown by a wind that wasn't there. The stench of death and decay weighed heavily in the room.

"Monster!" America exclaimed hoarsely.

 _"You fear a monster? What monster?"_ The creature lifted bony fingers like claws and ripped the veil off, casting it aside. America stared into the same blue eyes he saw every morning in the mirror, only now they held a cunning malevolence that chilled his very soul. Leaning forward so that its nose almost touched the glass, America's warped and undead reflection let its face slowly twist into a sadistic smile.

"The only monster here is… you."

No sooner had it spoken those words aloud, in America's own voice, when it came through the glass in a sudden lunge. America let loose a blood curdling scream and flung up his hands to shield himself, but the creature overpowered him with ease. Tackling him to the ground, it pulled a long, jagged dagger from its cloak and raised it high.

"Go to sleep," America's reflection whispered.

The dagger came down, and America knew no more.

…..…..

When his eyelids fluttered open again, the first thing he felt was a deep and unnerving _cold_. He was lying alone on his bedroom floor in a pool of his own spilt blood. The house was as motionless and quiet as a cemetery. Dawn was on the verge of arrival, still yet a sliver of pale light on the horizon. The sky outside had lightened enough to strip the dark of its thickness, and after his eyes adjusted America was able to see. Lethargy and numbness had settled into his bones, and his thoughts were a jumbled haze of confusion and overwhelming fear. America gripped the side of his bed and slowly pulled himself upright, trembling under a wave of exhaustion and stress. With far more effort than it should have taken, he staggered to his feet.

Something wasn't right.

America's hands flew to his chest, and he clutched at the gaping wound there. Blood oozed sluggishly from the hole, staining his fingers red. At that moment he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that something had gone terribly, horribly wrong. The regeneration process had been skewed, somehow. The wound that had killed him was supposed to be healed. Fatal injuries always vanished on a nation, and yet this one remained in defiance of that established law.

America did not consider the disturbing fact he was utterly without pain, nor did he stop to wonder how it was possible for his pierced heart to beat. He had no time to do so, for as he turned his head he looked directly into the mirror and saw his decaying, monstrous twin stare back.

Panic seized him, all judgement fled his mind, and he acted on one blind instinct.

Get out.

Get out.

 _Get out!_

He fled. All fatigue dispersed in the wake of a wild surge of adrenaline, and he moved faster than he'd ever moved before. He dared not glance at the mirror as he passed. The shut bedroom door did not falter him. A single kick, backed with all the might and power of a nation, sent it crashing to the ground. Down the stairs, through the hall, and out the front door he went. Out onto the street he stumbled, aimless save for the driving urge to get far away from that accursed place.

He heard a high-pitched scream. America turned, and met the aghast face of a young human woman. She screamed again; it seemed to America her widened eyes were fixed on a point behind him. Her purse slipped through nerveless fingers and fell to the ground, but the woman paid it no heed as she scrambled backwards and ran like the very hounds of Hell were snapping at her heels. America whirled again with a jolt of trepidation, fearing that his otherworldly antagonist stood behind him.

Nothing was there.

A sinking, dreadful feeling filled his gut, and America looked down at himself in rising dread. The realization came like a thunderclap. In an instant, the young nation understood what he had become. Decomposing skin and muscle clung loosely to partially exposed bone. Inside the bloody hole of his chest, America's heart did not beat. He'd never regenerated- he'd awoken as the walking dead. It was not the fiend's reflection that he had seen.

It was his own.

He really was the monster.

His shoulders shook with rising hysteria, and tears began to roll down his frozen cheeks. America fell to his knees and heaved. His stomach emptied its contents all over the pavement. Not a moment later, the night of horrors finally ended. As the rising sun crested the sky, the strengthening light of dawn fell on America. A wondrous transformation occurred as the new day undid what had been done. Living flesh grew over his bones, the deathly pallor left him, and his heart began to beat.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks to all readers, reviewers, and followers. Sorry for the wait guys! Anyway, here's the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy! Reviews are always welcome and make great motivators. Criticism is also much appreciated.**

 **Chapter Two**

Three years had passed, since that fateful night. For three years he had suffered silently in a secret hell.

America's life- if it could even still be called that- had become a tedious, agonizing routine that played on continuous repeat with no foreseeable end in sight. He danced always on a fragile tightrope; it was an unsteady balancing act between the two great powers that held dominance over him. On the one hand, his government protected him. They guarded him from hunters and bullets and the media's claws. They kept the world from discovering what he had become, and thus prevented America from being decried as a monster. On the other hand, it was the world that unwittingly secured what little freedom the "land of the free" had left.

As it was, America had grown far too used to wearing chains and being shut away. The only reason his government had not yet locked him up permanently and thrown away the key was fear of international suspicion. The personification of America had to make routine appearances at World Meetings and other scheduled socialization events, or else other nations would make enquires. When answers to those enquires would not be made readily available, those nations would then make investigations, which would lead to discoveries that the United States of America could not afford.

This meant that sometimes, on precious, rare days, the bolted door had to be opened and his handcuffs unlocked.

Those were the days he lived for.

The morning of a World Meeting began with breakfast, an unusual luxury. Orange juice and a slab of toast were brought to him by an entourage of strangers wearing white lab coats and gloves. He had five minutes to eat as they stood in front of him and watched, before the food was taken away again. He would then be stripped and hosed down. After roughly drying him off, they would manhandle him into whatever outfit his government had decided he should wear for the occasion. These outfits had to be specially approved and designed. They were not allowed to look out of character for Alfred, but they also could not reveal his thin frailty underneath. Once America was dressed, the hair stylists and makeup artists were brought in. America's pale, drawn face and baggy eyes were masterfully hidden, his hair was combed with Nantucket set carefully in place, and after a thorough examination, he would be declared fit to go.

Throughout the entire process of preparing America for the coming day, his handcuffs remained on at all times as a precaution, but there was honestly no need. Alfred docilely endured through it all, beaming like a fool, with no complaint or struggle. He was there in body, but far, far away in spirit. His thoughts were much too filled with joy for the upcoming meeting to mind the pinching and prodding of the strangers in white as they worked their magic and transformed his unkempt, pale, and thin countenance into the healthy image that the world expected to see.

When at last the officials were satisfied with Alfred's appearance, he would be prepped and lectured on what exactly to do and say in the presence of the other nations. He would be escorted by armed guards to the place of the meeting and lectured one last time on the many rules he had to follow. They unlocked his handcuffs last of all, just as the clock struck the appointed time for America to enter the conference building.

The second America entered that building, he was free. Temporarily, at least.

The meetings themselves were wonderful. He got to see Canada, and England, and all the rest. He got to talk and laugh and interact with people who didn't recoil at the sight of him. Even better, he got to eat. Not the rations he was ordinarily given, but real, actual hamburgers- World Meetings were the only times he ever got them anymore. Alfred was so happy that he could easily gorge himself on ten burgers at a single meeting (even if his poor stomach threw them up again later). Perhaps best of all, at the World Meetings he could sometimes force himself to forget. He could forget about the cell and chains that waited for him at home, and he could forget about the curse which separated him from his friends and family.

For at least a few hours, Alfred could pretend that everything was fine.

…..…..

He honestly hadn't suspected a thing before that day. Looking back, Russia would never be entirely sure what led him to do what he did. It was an impulse, really- a fleeting instinct that for some inexplicable reason he had latched onto and acted upon.

It all began, rather unexpectedly, with Germany's exasperated question.

"Does anyone have anything _useful_ to add?"

It was another typical Word Meeting, about another typical topic (something about melting ice caps, Ivan hadn't been paying that much attention), and all the nations behaved as was typical.

America, eager as always, raised his hand and waved frantically in his seat next to Ivan. Russia glared at him half-heartedly, and as it just so happened, America's long coat sleeve slipped down his upraised arm slightly. Russia caught a glimpse of something that caused his brow to furrow in concern, even as Germany called on the hyperactive American.

"Yes, America?" Ludwig asked with a sigh. Alfred lowered his hand, and his wrist was taken out of sight once again, leaving Russia to blink and wonder if he'd imagined it.

"I have a totally brilliant idea! So you know how ice always makes a drink cold? Well, what if we dumped lots of ice in the water around the ice caps? That would make the water really cold, and then they'd stop melting!"

"That won't work!" England snapped.

With that, the meeting descended into its customary unproductive chaos; however, Russia did not participate as usual. Instead he sat in quiet, contemplative thought. Had that been a ring of cut and raw skin he saw around America's wrist? It looked as if America had recently been wearing chains entirely too tight. Had Ivan truly seen what he thought he'd just seen?

Russia decided then that he would confront America about this strange injury, if for no other reason than to satisfy his own aroused curiosity. So, upon the meeting's conclusion, Russia got up and pretended to be one of the first to leave the conference building. As soon as he thought he was unobserved, Russia ducked into a side room which happened to be a large storage closet. He knew every nation who left would have to pass by his hiding place, and when America, as the host of the meeting, left last of all, Russia would be able to catch him off guard and corner him in relative privacy.

All of the nations who had attended the World Meeting trickled out slowly, individually or in groups. Time ticked by, and Russia felt his patience begin to evaporate. He was still there, waiting, long after the last of the crowd had dispersed. As far as Ivan knew, he and America were the only nations left in the building. Part of him was tempted to leave also, but he had stuck it out this long and it would be a shame not to follow through with his admittedly impulsive plan. Just when he was about to give up and emerge from his hiding place, Russia heard quick footsteps. Now finally interested again, the northern nation peeked through the crack of the closet door and listened in attentive, absolute silence.

The footsteps belonged to a troop of heavily armed American guards. In their midst was a grim man in a pristine black suit. Shocked, Russia correctly identified him as the President of the United States. The man did not look happy, Ivan reflected uneasily. The troop of men stopped right in front of the closet Russia hid in.

"Alfred F. Jones!" the President thundered.

The sound of running could be heard, and America abruptly dashed into view. Alfred skidded to a stop and stood panting before his boss, clutching a half-shut briefcase stuffed to the brim with disorganized paperwork.

"I'm sorry," America said instantly. "I got held up by England and I tried to keep the papers in order this time I really did but France-" he was cut off by a vicious backhanded blow from the President that sent him reeling. Startled, Russia hastily slapped a hand to his mouth to prevent a protesting cry that might give him away.

"Do you know what that was for?" the President asked coldly.

Blinking tears of pain, America wiped his bloody nose with his bomber jacket's coat sleeve as best he could and shook his head no.

"My daughter saw you last night," the President spat. "You stayed out too late and she saw you."

America visibly paled.

"I… the curfew… I didn't… I'm sorry!" he stammered.

" _Sorry_ won't keep my daughter from having _nightmares!_ " the President snarled. Without warning, he swung another punch at America, who did nothing to avoid it.

This blow knocked Alfred to the ground. He lay there, winded and reeling, as the President looked down on him with an undisguised sneer. One of the guards scooped up the fallen and forgotten briefcase from floor.

"I swear it won't happen again!" America gasped, curling instinctively into the fetal position.

"Of course it won't happen again," the President declared, kicking him in the gut. "You're not leaving that cell again. We've let a monster loose for too long, but that changes today. Put the cuffs back on him!"

The guards rushed forward and pinned the young nation down. In a matter of seconds, they had chained Alfred's hands behind his back. America didn't bother to struggle. Ivan watched in confusion and horror as Alfred was yanked roughly to his feet and escorted out of the building by gunpoint. As silence fell once again, the nation still hiding unobserved in the closet felt a rising apprehension as he considered what had just happened.

"What have I gotten myself into?" the Russian whispered to himself. He worried too late that he might have jumped in over his head, but nevertheless one thing stood clear. Having seen and heard what he had, Ivan could not in good conscience remain passive. Russia was now officially involved in this- whatever _this_ was- for better or for worse.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm back! Sorry about the delay, this chapter was hard to write. I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Speaking of which, thanks to all readers, followers, and reviewers! You guys are the best, and I hope you all enjoy this next chapter!**

 **Chapter Three**

America drew his knees up to his chest and shivered. He sat alone in his dark cell, huddled on his bed with his back pressed to the cold stone wall. He appeared and felt the very definition of pathetic. His glasses had been confiscated. He had no idea where they'd ended up- probably the trash. After the President had decided to rearrange his nose, the guards had not hesitated to add their own handiwork. The cruel beating had only stopped when they tossed him in the cell and bolted the door. A few hours of solitude and long, utter silence had slowly drifted by since then. America's chest ached with every agonizing breath he took, his lip was split badly and still bled sluggishly, and his right eye was swollen shut. In short, he looked like shit.

 _"_ _I wish Iggy were here. If he had his way, I'd be halfway to the nearest hospital by now,"_ Alfred thought to himself distantly. It was a useless thought, he realized with a tremble. No amount of wishing had ever brought his father-figure into the cell before, so why should it now? And besides, wasn't it better that England would never know? Wasn't it better that England would be spared the pain of knowing what abomination his ex-colony had become?

America wasn't sure how much longer he could keep convincing himself.

The chains were back on, which was hardly unusual, except this time… this time, they were much worse. Somehow they were heavier, because now he knew they'd never come off again. They were tighter, because now he knew he'd be endlessly restrained. He wouldn't have to be released ever again, because the President would declare at the next world meeting that Alfred had chosen to go back into isolationism for an indefinite period of time. His country would still operate as normal, but Alfred himself would be shut off from the world. The other nations would hate him for it. They'd see it as a slight against them. His family would be devastated and hurt. No one would ever know the truth, and Alfred would never see the sun again.

America dreaded with all of his soul the terrible day he would finally lose the last shreds of his morality, and the last of his sanity would be snapped. He knew with absolute certainty the day would come. How could it not, when he slowly wasted away in the dank, lightless cell? How could it not, when he starved to death, and regenerated, and then starved to death again, and again, and again, and again, and again…

He knew that day would be the day the Monster won, and the Hero perished forever.

The transformation was starting. The curse was creeping up on him, as it always did, every single night. He could feel it- the numbness, the gaping hole in his chest, the stench of decay.

Alfred gagged.

He was _not_ crying, dammit! He wasn't…

…..…..

Night had fallen. As Russia surveyed the fortress looming in the dark before him, he felt the rising, giddy thrill of both triumph and terror.

It was well disguised, he had to give them that. If he hadn't known what to look for, Ivan would've thought nothing of the large, dilapidated, and seemingly abandoned grocery store building. But with a trained eye like his own, Ivan had to study the place only for a few moments before he was able to tell that it was, in actuality, a secret American military base.

It had been easy for someone with Ivan's experience and spying prowess to locate the place America was being held. Too easy, almost. Age-old paranoia raised its ugly head and Russia's confidence began to falter. Was this a trap of some kind? Had the Americans detected him? Did they know he'd trailed them? And even if this wasn't a trap, what was he supposed to do now? For the first time in years, Russia was completely stumped.

What should he do? Now that Russia knew the location, should he fall back, gather more intel, and formulate a sophisticated plan of action? Or should he launch a rescue operation immediately? Just how dire was the situation, and could he afford to wait? If Russia were to leave, could he count on America still being at this base when he got back, or was it only a temporary holding place? He needed answers, and he needed them soon.

As Russia sat there in his vehicle parked a good distance away, watching the enemy base, an idea came to him out of the blue. It was risky, it was crazy… but it just might work.

First, he drove a good distance away from the base. Not so far that he wouldn't be able to find it again, but far enough away that if any government official saw and recognized him, they wouldn't get suspicious. Picking a restaurant at random, Russia pulled into the parking lot and parked his car away from the entrance in a remote corner. He cut the engine, and was plunged momentarily into darkness, before he switched the vehicle's interior lights on.

Russia took a deep breath, rallied his wits, and pulled out his cellphone. He studied his contacts list. Russia had the business numbers of all the nations, organized in alphabetical order. That was better than nothing, but America's business number wouldn't work for what he had in mind. After all, it wasn't unusual for a secretary to handle a nation's business number, and Russia was absolutely certain that was the case for America. No, what Russia needed was to speak to _America_ , and the only way that could happen was if he called America's personal number.

The problem was, he didn't have that number.

How was he to get it, then? He could contact England, or France, or… what was his name again? Canadia? Russia checked his list of contacts. Oh yes, it was Canada, America's twin brother. So, he could contact one of America's family members and ask for the personal number. However, that would inevitably raise the curiosity and suspicions of those countries, and they would ask questions Russia wasn't sure how to answer. It was a delicate, volatile situation. He could tell the truth, but then that would cause such an international uproar Russia might as well have just declared World War III, which was something he did _not_ want to do. Besides, if and when he informed the other nations of what he had discovered, it would be on his own terms.

 _"_ _A lie it will be, then,"_ Russia decided. After some consideration, he chose Canada's number, because he vaguely remembered hearing somewhere that Canada received so few calls he didn't even bother having a separate phone for his personal life. As he pressed the call button, Ivan mentally prayed that the northern nation would be the one to answer, and not an assistant.

"Hello?"

Russia sighed with relief as he recognized the soft voice.

"Hello, Canada. This is Russia!"

"Eh?! What do you- I mean, can I help you?"

"Do you have America's personal phone number?" Russia asked, choosing not to beat around the bush.

"Why do you want to know?"

It was incredible how quickly timid little Canada's voice became as hard as steel. Russia smiled.

"I wish to ask America about the meeting today… he had some interesting thoughts, da?"

"You know he was just goofing off," Canada said defensively. "He's not really that dumb, all he wants is to get us to laugh."

"I of all people should know that he's not always the fool he appears," Russia said quietly. "The truth is, what I wish to talk to him about is… personal. It is not really for a secretary to know, understand? So that is why I wish to have his private number."

There was muteness on the other end. Ivan knew that Canada was weighing his words carefully and trying to think of a reason to refuse giving the number.

"Why should I trust you?" Canada finally asked. "I know that whatever it is you want to talk about with Alfred, it's serious. I can tell that much. You wouldn't bother if it were otherwise."

"You are perceptive," Russia complimented, barely concealing his surprise.

"I should be," Canada said bitterly. "After all, I do nothing but listen."

Russia thought for a moment, before answering slowly.

"I can give you nothing but my word that I mean well. I will tell you this- I am trying to help him."

"Why? Why would you help? And what does he need help with, anyway?" Canada questioned harshly.

Russia stiffened. It was time to draw the line.

"I believe that is between me and Alfred. Will you help me contact America, or must I seek other means?" he demanded sharply.

There was a tense silence.

"Fine. I'll tell you the number, but if you find some way of abusing this information, I _will_ come after you. Are we clear?" Canada's voice was colder than ice.

"Da. We are clear."

Canada gave the number, and hung up. No doubt the Canadian was already second-guessing his judgement, but it was too late for that. Russia hastily entered America's number and hit call. He waited nervously, but the phone was never answered and went to voicemail. Not one to give up easily, Russia called again. And again. And again.

 _"_ _One last try,"_ he thoughts desperately. As he listened to each ring, Russia held his phone in a death grip. This was it. His plan hinged on the outcome of this moment.

…..…..

The door to America's cell burst open and guards filed in. America gasped and shielded his eyes with his hands, trying to block out the unexpected, blinding light. His hands were yanked away and someone roughly grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up at the scowling warden who loomed over him. The humans all recoiled slightly in revulsion at the sight of the cursed and decaying face of their once proud nation.

"You'll have to answer this call," the warden explained quickly, holding up America's ringing cellphone, which had been confiscated along with everything else a long time ago. "You know what to do."

America did know what to do: answer the phone, say what they wanted him to say, and don't let any of the other nations get suspicious. He'd been through this process many times before.

The warden passed the phone to a guard. Since America was still handcuffed and couldn't do it for himself, the guard pressed the answer button and held the phone up to America's ear.

"H-hello?" America asked hesitantly, struggling to keep his tone steady.

"Hello, America. This is Russia."

Ivan's deceptively jovial voice hit him like a bucket of cold water. Blinking with shock, America wondered how to respond. Although tempted to ask how Russia even got his number, he decided not to ruin what could quite possibly be his last ever interaction with another nation. Unfortunately, he still had to stay at least somewhat "in character", however tasteless it might be.

"Hello, commie. How are you?" America inwardly winced at how weak his voice sounded.

He head a dramatic sigh on the other end.

"Oh, America. How many times must we go over this? I am not communist anymore."

"Right. Whatever. Did you want something?"

"Da…"

Was that a hesitation he heard in Russia's voice? Strange.

"I was… wondering… Have you ever been to Amsterdam in the winter?"

 _Are you in trouble? Can you speak freely?_

America froze. He remembered that code. In the event that one of the nations was put in some sort of captive situation, Germany had come up with a special code that the nations could use to communicate. The others realized that it was a wise thing to have, and everyone was required to learn it. America had thought it was a cool idea at the time, but now he couldn't help but have a deeper appreciation for the German's foresight.

"No, I haven't."

 _Yes, I'm in trouble. I can't speak freely._

America inwardly cursed himself. Why had he said that? Now Russia would know something was wrong!

"Would you like to go there next winter with me?"

 _Do you need help? Do you need it now?_

America's hands shook, and he struggled to hide his nervousness from the guards. He had to lie. He had to be selfless. He had to do it for England, for Canada- for everyone. No one could ever know about the curse.

"I'm sorry, but I'll have to decline your invitation," he heard himself say in a monotone voice.

 _Yes._

"That is a shame. You should reconsider. Goodbye, America." Russia hung up abruptly.

 _Help is coming._

Dazed, America sat motionless as the guards slowly filed out and his cell door was bolted shut once again, plunging him back into darkness. Selfish. He was selfish. He wasn't strong enough to lie. Now the others would find out. They'd learn about his curse.

Alfred should've been disgusted with himself, but all he could feel was the stirrings of something he hadn't had in a long time…

Hope.


End file.
